


you found me under the midnight sun

by leftishark



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Antarctica, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, and that’s mostly offscreen, gratuitous emphasis on setting, the only bad thing is the weather, uhh kinda emotional hurt/comfort but about things in the past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2019-10-04 01:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17294879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leftishark/pseuds/leftishark
Summary: Time is different in Antarctica. Over a three-month-long day, a pilot and an ice driller fall in love.





	1. November 10

**Author's Note:**

> the end was so fake that i noped all the way back to the first 30 seconds where shiro helps scientists get ice cores.

*** November 10 ***

Time is different in Antarctica.

The sun doesn’t set all summer long, and dozens of science teams work nonstop from dawn in early November till dusk in late January. Keith is on the night shift this year, running the drill from 1800 hours to 0600 under a brilliant blue sky before pulling on an eye mask so he can fall asleep in the glow of his tent, existing in an endless bath of sunlight. He loves it, as he’s come to love the cold and isolation. 

What Keith doesn’t love about working in Antarctica is the people. His field camp is okay--they work well together and leave him alone when he needs it--but he dislikes the bureaucracy, the media interest, the constant visitors interrupting the rhythm of their work. 

Then again, maybe these things are worse for a field camp that’s drilling the oldest ice core ever recovered. One and a half million years, says Allura. Revolutionizing the study of Earth’s climate history, says Pidge. 

There’s a group visiting today, a night flight stopping by on their way from the Garrison on the coast to the South Pole station in the middle of the continent. They clog up the galley tent during the midnight meal--lunch for the night shift--but Keith supposes he can forgive them seeing as they’ve brought fuel and food. And because the tall one in black is hot, even in a puffy jacket.

Keith wonders how he’s missed him in previous seasons. The black coat, a contrast to government-issued red, is a signal that he’s accustomed enough to Antarctic conditions to have his own gear. But Keith would never forget that face.

“This is Captain Shirogane,” Coran announces during introductions, holding up the handsome man’s hand and patting his arm unnecessarily. Captain Shirogane gives a little wave and a sheepish grin. It’s too cute for a man that hot. “He’ll be flying supplies in for Camp Voltron all season, so everybody be nice to him.” 

Coran takes the group on the usual tour after lunch, per his duties as field manager, and they linger in the drill rig for a while. Keith doesn’t mind this so much; he is proud of his work and his team. The labor will be less physically intense once they get through the top layer of snow, three hundred feet thick at this site, but for now they’re lugging big augers--metal strip spiraled around a central core--to add to the drill cutting down, down, down. The tent is warm enough at just below freezing that he and Acxa have shed most of their layers. Lance is on the controls today, and for all his incessant gabbering off-duty he is reliable conductor.

If Keith tracks Captain Shirogane’s black jacket in his peripheral vision, if he hopes the Captain notices the flex of his shoulders under his snug baselayer, no one else has to know.


	2. November 17

*** November 17 ***

Shiro quickly realizes that his flight schedule is dictated by the whims of the weather rather than any sensible timetable. 

The South Pole station rarely gets fresh snow, too cold and far from the ocean, but in his first week the wind gets so strong that the sky whites out just from blowing surface powder; when he ventures outside, it’s like he’s suspended in a cloud, no horizon and nothing visible in the white except the nearest safety flag marking the path. He has to wait two days to reschedule a flight. And when skies at the station are clear, they’re often not at the deep field camps where he needs to land.

He takes the Twin Otter out to resupply Camp Olkarion in the Transantarctic Mountains and Dome A on the plateau before he makes it back to Voltron. Now that he’s seen others for comparison, he’s struck by Voltron’s size, the largest camp by far with around 50 staff and scientists moving between the galley, a communications center, and other support operations housed in dozen wood-framed tents. 

And the drill rig, of course, where he may have expressed more curiosity than he really felt about the details of ice drilling so he could keep watching the man with the gorgeous eyes and incredible shoulders lift heavy objects.

Shiro lands in the early morning, when the night shift he met last time is unwinding after work. There’s a confusing mix of pot roast, tater tots, and oatmeal left out from their joint dinner-breakfast with the day shift. The forecast shows no inclement weather for the next couple of days, so Shiro takes the time to enjoy this excursion, chatting with the night crew while he nurses a strong herbal tea. 

Well, he mostly chats with the gangly one called Lance who babbles on about his more reserved teammates on their behalf. Acxa, he learns, is new to ice drilling in particular, but brings years of experience from the oil and mineral industry she finally broke out of. He’s glad for her career change, and says as much, but he’s really looking forward to learning more about the beautiful man. He leans forward eagerly when Lance picks up again. “Speaking of career changes, Keith here—”

“—is leaving,” the beautiful man named Keith says harshly as he pushes away from the table. 

“Abandoning us so soon?” Lance sniffs. Keith flips him off. “Give the skis a big wet smooch for me.” 

“Skis?” One of the few downsides to taking this job was missing the ski season at home. “You guys ski here?”

“Yeah, this guy goes every day. Hunk made us a trail going a mile out from camp,” Lance explains. 

“So we don’t kill each other living together for three months,” Acxa adds drily.

Skiing sounds nice. It would be good exercise and a chance to experience more of the camp. It would also be a good opportunity to talk to Keith, his lizard brain tells him. “Mind if I tag along?” he calls to where Keith is grabbing his gear by the door. “Be nice to stretch my legs before heading back.” 

Lance laughs. “Oh no, dude, that’s Keith’s alone time. He needs his hour of quiet solitude so he doesn’t off us all.”

Shiro considers. Skiing would be its own enjoyment, regardless of a pretty boy. If Keith truly doesn’t want company, he doesn’t want to push—but then again, how many times has he himself pretended solitude was voluntary? “I can be quiet,” he offers.

Keith stares him down. Shiro couldn’t look away if wanted to, enthralled by his sharp gaze, his striking brows, his mouth turned down into a little pout—

“There’s only one pair of skis.” Shiro tries to hide his disappointment as Keith zips up his jacket emphatically. He tilts his head. “No one’s stopping you from walking.”

Shiro doesn’t bother hiding his delight.

Walking, it turns out, is not fast enough to keep up with Keith on skis. Shiro jogs, grateful for his long stride and the prerequisite of silence that absolves his lungs of supporting speech alongside movement. He trains for strength, not cardio.

It’s pleasant enough, even without conversation. He’ll never lose awe of the ice sheet stretching white and flat in all directions, and he gets lost in thoughts of the first explorers who braved this bleak, beautiful continent. Above, a few wispy clouds drift across brilliant blue.

They go on like that for a while, the only sounds the swish of Keith’s skis and the flump of Shiro’s boots, before Keith clears his throat.

“I’m not actually going to murder you if you talk.”

Shiro’s not sure if it’s a joke. Keith is still facing straight ahead, expression obscured by sunglasses. 

“I mean, you don’t have to be completely silent,” he continues. “Lance was mostly giving me shit about quiet solitude. He’s the worst offender.” Keith finally looks over. “You’ve proven you can shut up.”

Shiro ventures a small grin. “So now I don’t have to?” The words knock his breathing out of rhythm. “Uh, I’m not sure I can talk, like, physically.”

Keith gives half a laugh, his expression more charitable than Shiro’s seen it so far. “All right, don’t push it. You’re keeping up pretty good, though. Most people don’t do so hot this high up.”

“Takes more than 3,164 meters of elevation to knock me out,” Shiro declares, thought he’s straining to keep his words steady.

“Meters, huh? Fancy.”

“10,381 feet, if you prefer.” His smirk is ruined by his panting. “Living in the mountains helps with the altitude, and the South Pole is at 9,000 feet already. I guess I’m acclimating.” 

Keith hums in agreement and slows his pace, much to Shiro’s gratitude. They fall into a more companionable silence until Keith breaks it again. 

“What’s the South Pole like?”

How do you describe the end of the earth? A hundred adjectives come to mind, none accurate on their own. 

Shiro wants to be honest, if not accurate. Wants Keith to keep opening up. Wants to make him laugh. 

“Ugly.” Keith snorts out loud this time. Success. “I’m serious! The station is one big gray rectangle on stilts, and you can see the smoke stacks from the generators poking out of the ice. Amazing, but ugly.”

Keith is grinning widely now, and Shiro marvels at how expressive he is under his shell. “I wanna see its ugly ass one of these years.”

“You’ve never been?”

Keith shakes his head. “Seven years and still no. I’ve always been at the Garrison or gone straight to a camp from there. Would’ve gone through the South Pole this year to get out here, but I was on the traverse instead—we drove the drill out here on tractors,” he clarifies. 

“Maybe next year,” offers Shiro.

“Maybe.” Keith’s smile turns smaller, more private. It’s no less charming. “Someday I want to winter over there.”

Shiro whistles. “That’s intense.” As crazy as they all are to be in Antarctica at all, the fifty-odd people who stay at the South Pole for eight months of darkness and total isolation are on another level.

Keith shrugs. “I like that kind of thing.” He pauses, as Shiro is noticing is his habit; he waits for him to elaborate. He was alluring as a mysterious recluse, and is engaging as a person. “I miss the stars in the summer,” Keith admits. “The sun is great and all, but the stars at night, they make you feel like—like part of the universe.” He trails off at the end and pushes his sunglasses up, a gesture of nervousness, or perhaps embarrassment. 

“They say it’s the closest thing on Earth to being in space,” Shiro agrees, wanting to reassure him. “That was my dream when I was a kid, before—well, before I went for airplanes instead of space ships.” It’s too soon, he thinks, to drag something heavy into a new friendship. At least, he hopes it’s a new friendship. “Maybe I’ll winter over one day too.”

Keith’s small smile is back. “You gotta learn something more than flying. None of that in the winter.”

“What about you? Do they drill ice in the winter?” He’d be surprised; most science operations are constrained to the summer, with only maintenance staff keeping up the facilities over the winter. 

“No.” He flicks some snow at Shiro with his ski pole. “I haven’t always done ice drilling. Started in food prep at the Garrison and trained into other jobs until I decided I liked this best. That’s what Lance was getting at career changes.” He looks over, guarded. “I’m not a—a professional.”

“Sure you are,” Shiro protests. Keith doesn’t reply, so he asks, “What would you want to work as over winter there?”

Keith hums in thought. “I’d probably try as a mechanic.”

The image of Keith bent over complex machinery invades Shiro’s thoughts. Regardless of how appealing it is, it also seems right—Keith obviously likes working with his hands, is skilled at it. He reigns in that thought, too. “I believe you can do it.”

Keith looks at him funny. “You just met me.”

“Still.” He genuinely does. “You just said yourself how you learned different skills by working here. That takes initiative and perseverance as much as talent, and you have seven years’ experience on the ice. I have to believe those qualities are valued in essentially survival conditions.”

Keith laughs softly. “All right, Captain,” he says, looking embarrassed but pleased. “You can apply as a motivational speaker.” His mouth quirks up to one side. It’s devastating.

“It’s Shiro,” he says, because he’s not sure he can hear Keith call him that again without tripping over his boots. He’s trying to establish a friendship here. “My friends call me Shiro.”

“Shiro.” It sounds good in his voice, low and just a little gravely. On second thought, Shiro isn’t sure his name is any less liable to cause an injury than his title, especially with Keith half-smiling at him like that.

The quiet settles over them again, comfortable now, until they reach the end where the red flags marking the groomed trail stop abruptly. Behind them, Camp Voltron is nothing but a few bumps on the horizon.

The way back is lighter, as they swap stories about the colorful characters they work with; Keith has built up quite a few over the years, and Shiro does his best impression of Slav the insufferable IT guy. Lance’s eyes bug out and he splutters through brushing his teeth when they reenter the galley tent still chuckling.

At the end of it, Keith says, “See you next time, Shiro,” and sends him off with a warm smile and a wave. 

Shiro grins the whole flight back.


	3. November 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro’s face falls for a second before it lights up. “You wanna race?”

*** November 30 ***

When Shiro arrives just before midnight lunch, he pulls a pair of skis out of the plane along with the boxes of food. 

It’s thoughtful of him. Keith is surprised that he isn’t surprised. He’s only hung out with Shiro the one time, but even in that hour he could sense a core of kindness, of integrity. Shiro was warm and funny once granted permission, inquisitive but not pressing, attractive but also kind of a nerd—who memorizes the elevation of all their sites down to the foot and the meter? 

Odd, he thinks, that it’s easier to talk to a stranger than people he’s known with for years. But maybe that’s part of the appeal: Shiro has no assumptions of who Keith is.

He’s not the tragic orphan, not the troubled youth, not the newbie on the ice too awkward to make friends, the loner too focused on proving himself because he was too desperate to return. He’s not the grumpy driller jaded by one season too many. 

Well, maybe he is a little bit of that.

But Shiro assumes friendship and so friendship exists. Keith wants it. He weighs that against hot lunch.

“Save me a plate,” he mutters to Acxa and grabs a Clif bar for now. “I’ll take your dish duty.” 

“It’s fine,” she replies, because she’s honorable like that. But he is too, so she says in compromise, “You can help me.” He nods.

*

The everpresent sun feels stronger than usual as he and Shiro snap into their skis. It’s only a few degrees below freezing today, practically balmy, and there’s no wind to chill the air. Keith lifts his face to soak it in as they glide into a leisurely rhythm before he remembers he has a time limit. 

“Hey Shiro,” he says, “I gotta be back in half an hour. Sorry.”

Shiro’s face falls for a second before it lights up. “You wanna race?”

Suddenly Keith is itching for it, wants to push his body and see Shiro do the same. “I hope you’re faster on skis than on foot,” he taunts.

“You think you can keep up with the five-time consecutive champion of the Black Mountain cross-country tournament?”

“This is my turf,” Keith retorts. “You’re on.”

And then they’re flying across the snow.

On skis, Shiro is all power and speed. They’re well matched, neck and neck for long strenuous minutes—though Keith suspects they’re both under their true limits, pushing just enough to keep up with the other. 

As the end of the flags comes in sight, Shiro starts to pull ahead. But Keith has been doing this almost every day for the past two weeks and knows to angle his path around the soft patch that slows Shiro down just enough for him to catch up. He’s built up stamina, and he draws on hidden reserves of energy and determination—his legs and chest and arms are straining, but he’s grinning wide and wild—he pushes and pushes until he passes the last flag and glides, exhausted but victorious, to a stop.

“Not bad,” he wheezes when Shiro pulls up beside him a moment later and collapses over his ski poles. Keith reaches over to thump his shoulder sportsmanlike.

“My lungs,” Shiro gasps through heaving breaths. 

“They’re burning,” Keith agrees. He’s hot all over. “Fuck, _I’m_ burning.” He rips off his hat and gloves. 

Shiro pulls off his fleece sweater, which is a fantastic idea. Keith takes off his outer layer too and then, high on competition, the thin wool shirt under it, baring his entire upper body to the elements. 

“Wow,” he hears beside him. When he turns, Shiro is pink and dazed with sun and exertion. “Uh, aren’t you cold?” 

“It feels good.” Keith flings his arms out. “C’mon, Shiro!”

Shiro hesitates only a moment more before taking off his gloves and reaching up to tug his shirt over his head, and—wow. He’s been so caught up in Shiro as a person that he forgot just how hot he was. And as handsome as his face is, everyone looks mostly the same neck-down in a puffy jacket. 

Shiro is a million times hotter without it. Keith wants to lick his abs, and then his pecs, wants to palm his giant biceps, wants to feel them around him, holding him in a dizzying multitude of scenarios. His right arm is a prosthetic, sleek metal gleaming in the sunlight, and Keith wants to know if it takes up the chill of the air or the warmth of the sun.

It hits him then that he is similarly half-naked, and he feels suddenly exposed in the sun and Shiro’s presence. Friends, he remembers; he’s managed to become friends with Shiro and it’s quickly becoming the highlight of this season. He really doesn’t want to fuck it up. He relaxes into a grin. “Feels organic, doesn’t it?”

“Sure. You’re still crazy, though,” Shiro laughs. 

Keith elbows him, hard, and Shiro has to stick out his ski pole so he doesn’t go toppling over. While he’s distracted, Keith pops out of his skis and darts away out of Shiro’s reach. He thinks he’s safe until—

 _Splat!_ Something wet and cold hits his bare upper back. “You—!” He bends over to scoop up a snowball of his own, but when he spins around to lob it at Shiro he’s closer than he’d thought and moving closer. Thinking fast, Keith takes a running step and grabs Shiro’s shoulder as he jumps up to smush the snow into Shiro’s hair.

“Aaaaugh!” Shiro squawks, entirely unmanly. But it turns out he was hiding more snow in his palm, which he smears down Keith’s arm. 

“Okay, okay, truce!” Keith laughs. 

Shiro’s laughing too, and it takes a minute to come down. Keith thinks that this is the most fun he’s had since he left Kosmo with his mom—an easy sort of joy. The chill sets in quickly, though, and he sees Shiro rubbing his prosthetic arm. 

“Cold?”

Shiro shakes his head. “Can’t feel it here. I think my hair is frozen, though.” He tips his head so Keith can see where the snow he’d rubbed there has melted and refrozen, shaping his hair into weird spikes. Keith pokes at it. 

“Shit, my phone,” Keith remembers. The battery dies quickly in the cold, and he left it in the pocket of his jacket now lying on the snow, no longer warmed by his body.

It’s still working when he checks, but the time tells him that his lunch break is sadly halfway over. “I gotta get back,” he says. Then, preemptively, “I am _not_ racing back to camp.” 

“Dare you to go all the way back like this,” Shiro challenges instead, gesturing at his own naked torso.

Keith grins. “Only if you do too.”

So they ski shirtless the whole way back to camp, jackets are tied fashionably around their hips, Keith admiring the flex of Shiro’s upper body as he propels himself forward. He could swear he sees Shiro glance his way, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shirtless in Antarctica: it’s more likely than you think! This is based on my experience skiing on a warm sunny day, albeit at lower elevation and a more coastal location, and without a hot pilot for company. But whole camps will do have a volleyball match in swimsuits or take a shirtless holiday picture! Antarctica is a weird fucking place!


	4. December 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro hesitates still, pulled back by his old habit of deflecting the personal, but then he considers the things Keith has shared of himself already, and how little he has returned. Keith’s face is open and inviting. Shiro wants to take down his own walls.

*** November 26 ***

Shiro can’t stop thinking about Keith. 

He surprises Shiro with every new shade of his mood, pensive and teasing and fascinating. And there’s something about Keith’s fine features and compact build in contrast with his physical labor as an _ice driller_ —how cool is that—that makes Shiro grateful that he has his own room.

He can’t wait to see Keith again, but he has to. 

First the government shuts down, stalling all scientific work. Shiro’s flights don’t stop entirely, since resupplying camps is necessary for their survival, but they’re heavily reduced. Then when the shutdown ends—thankfully after just a week—a rare atmospheric river reaches Camp Voltron, bringing strong winds and a heavy dumping of snow that knocks out their internet along with any chance of landing a plane.

But every storm must pass, and finally Shiro is flying out there again. This time he has special equipment that the camp has requested tucked in next to the food and the South Pole’s IT technician in tow to fix the internet.

Patience yields focus, he tells himself. Out loud, he says, “Slav, I’m trying to fly this plane.”

“But I don’t know if I have everything I’ll need!” Slav babbles. “There’s a non-zero chance that the issue is more than misalignment. What color socks am I wearing? Purple, it’s Tuesday. I knew I should have brought—”

“Slav,” Shiro grits out through his teeth. “Will you please. Shut up.” 

*

Three hours with Slav is nothing, it turns out, compared to two weeks in a barely functional field camp. 

“Thank goodness you’re here,” says Coran, patting Shiro’s arm. “We’ve been flapping about like headless penguins.” 

They do seem desperate—the new tools were dragged off to the drill rig as soon as Shiro landed, and everyone is in turn snapping at each other and thanking Shiro profusely.

“I just fly the planes,” Shiro deflects. 

“An absolutely vital task,” says one of the lead scientists—Allura, Shiro recalls. “I’m so looking forward to getting internet back—it would have helped tremendously with troubleshooting the drill, they think fluid recirculation system jammed during the shutdown when the drill was nonoperational—”

“—doesn’t help that the pressure gauge is shit,” interjects the head driller Kolivan as he passes by, “couldn’t try anything or we risked the whole system—”

“—and we haven’t been able to update the other PIs back in the states. You really don’t realize how much half an hour of internet a day is until you lose it.”

“Even the satellite phones were down,” adds Pidge, one of the grad students. “They were working just fine under windblown snow, but the cloud cover in that storm completely blocked the signal.”

“Don’t tell me I need to fix the phones, too!” cries Slav from where he’s crouched around the router.

Escaping Slav, Shiro moves to the drill rig, where the drillers are putting the delivered parts and tools to work. Even though it’s mid-morning, nearly everyone is up to contribute or observe, day and night shifts alike. Shiro is glad to see that Keith is among them—even if it’s just to work, and not to see Shiro. 

He watches for a while, admiring the coordination of the whole team and Keith’s obvious expertise as he suggests repairs in that emphatic way of his. And, maybe, his dexterous hands working wrenches and tightening screws, though it seems hardly appropriate in the strained atmosphere. In turn, Keith gives tight, tired smiles when he catches his eye.

They seem to be making progress, and after a while Kolivan calls for the night shift to go sleep. Keith comes over to Shiro instead. 

“Hey,” he mutters, the tense lines of his face softening slightly. Shiro wants to hug him.

“Hi,” says Shiro. “You look happy.”

“Two weeks,” Keith grumbles. “Almost two weeks we’ve been stuck like this.”

“Patience yields focus,” Shiro says wryly. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Keith rolls his eyes. “If only it yielded ice cores. Come on, I need to get out of here.” 

*

Keith doesn’t say anything the whole way to the end of the trail, and so Shiro doesn’t either, lets him work pent-up frustration out through the swinging motion of his limbs. It reminds Shiro of the first time they went out like this. This time, the silence is tense with concern rather than awkwardness. 

They slow as they reach the last flags, and then stop and breathe in the open space. 

Keith lets out a deep sigh. “I missed this.”

“Mm,” Shiro agrees. Several days trapped indoors by the storm must have been stifling for someone used to daily ski outings, more so without a full day’s work to occupy his time. He missed this too, though he suspects not in all the same ways Keith did. He waits.

“I grew up in the desert,” Keith continues eventually. “It was hot in the summer, and red, and all you could see were rocks and cactuses. This place feels the same, somehow.”

He goes quiet again, leaving Shiro lost in his half-articulated musing. He wants to know Keith’s mind. “Hot,” he teases gently. “Red.” He tugs on Keith’s sleeve, meaning to indicate the big red government-issued coat, but then he realizes that could be interpreted as Keith himself. Now is clearly not the time for that. “Cactuses,” he adds hastily.

Keith huffs out a laugh and elbows him. “No, I mean without all the…” he waves his hand at the white plane around them. “Without all the stuff. People, buildings. Topography, even, here. It feels—I don’t know.” He lets his arm drop. “Timeless.”

And Shiro understands, feels it too. Here the world is split into white and blue, and nothing else exists. What a concept, he thinks, to reject time. “Like it’s always been here and always will be.”

“Yeah.” Keith smiles. “And our problems don’t matter at all.”

Shiro laughs softly. “That would give some people an existential crisis.” 

“Oh—sorry,” says Keith. “I was thinking about the drill.”

“Not our insignificance in the face of boundless time and space?” 

“I mean, if you want…” Keith turns to him. “Why, does that bother you?”

“It did,” Shiro admits. “I used to think it was terrifying a long time ago, but now… it’s kind of freeing.” He remembers himself then and looks away. “Sorry—you came out here to get away from everything.”

But Keith shakes his head. “I come out here to get away from my own problems. Tell me. If—if you want.”

Shiro hesitates still, pulled back by his old habit of deflecting the personal, but then he considers the things Keith has shared of himself already, and how little he has returned. Keith’s face is open and inviting. Shiro wants to take down his own walls. 

“I used to think about time a lot,” he says. “You know when the one thing you don’t have is the one thing you can’t stop thinking about?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, “I know about that.” Which is intriguing enough that Shiro is tempted to divert the conversation—another time, he tells himself.

“I was—sick for a long time,” he explains, “from when I was young. I’m better now, or I wouldn’t have been able to come here, but I didn’t know if that would ever happen. For so many years I was scared that I would die before I did anything that mattered to the world.” 

He pauses, and Keith touches his arm, grounding. “So you learned to fly.”

Shiro nods. “It was an escape. I couldn’t go all the way to space, but I could get off the ground—away from reality. When I was up in the air I felt like I was invincible.” He laughs, humorless, and raises his prosthetic arm. “Until this happened. The cost of recovery.”

“Cost—?”

Now that he’s started, Shiro can’t stop talking. He’s opened a floodgate and everything he usually holds in is pouring out. 

“I got caught in a mining fight. I never wanted to go that way, but the pay was good and the work was more reliable than tourism, and my treatments were expensive. I figured, at least lithium mining is for renewable energy, you know, electric cars and all…” He shakes his head. “Turns out it’s just as dirty as the rest. 

“I crashed, and they called it a pilot error. Took months before they admitted it was a mechanical failure—subtle sabotage by their competitors. They were trying to keep the fighting within the industry and out of the press.”

“I heard about this,” Keith says suddenly. “It was all over—Sincline stock dropped like crazy.”

“That’s me,” Shiro says with a grimace. “They couldn’t keep it down the end, and they had to pay out a fortune—not that it hurt them at all, but at least I was able to get more advanced treatment, the best, and I recovered all the way. Just cost me an arm, got to keep the leg.”

Keith, it seems, doesn’t cope through bad humor. He looks murderous. 

“I did get a state-of-the-art prosthetic, too,” Shiro adds, unable to stop himself. “Though I also lost a boyfriend.”

“Because of what happened to you?” 

Shiro warms at his indignance. He smiles. “Because I wanted to keep flying.”

Keith still looks angrily confused. “Who the hell is he to say anything about that?” 

“He didn’t want to keep putting himself through the worry. He’d always worried.” Shiro shrugs. “We were just different people in incompatible ways.”

“That’s—very mature,” Keith mutters. “Still wanna kick his ass.” 

Shiro laughs. “Thank you? I’m really okay, though.” It’s a relief to say, and a relief to feel that it’s true. “I’m learning to live for myself now. Flying makes me feel alive. And that might not matter to the world, or to anyone else, but it matters to me.”

“It matters to me, too,” Keith blurts before looking away. 

Shiro can feel his heart and his face warm in the cold. “Yeah?” 

“You’re my friend,” Keith says, glancing over. 

“Friends.” Shiro smiles. The urge to hold him returns, stronger than ever, and finally Shiro acts on it. “Keith, can I—can I hug you?” 

Keith nods, turning to him fully, and Shiro wraps his arms around Keith’s shoulders while Keith’s go around his middle. He imagines he can feel Keith’s body warmth through the thick, soft layers between them, and he breathes easy. 

“Hey,” Shiro murmurs against Keith’s hair. “Thanks for listening.” 

“Any time.” Keith’s voice rumbles against Shiro’s chest. “Thanks for telling me.” 

He doesn’t let go, and neither does Shiro, and slowly the embrace shifts from an active pressing of limbs to a simple hold, loose and comforting as they lean into each other. Shiro doesn’t usually think he needs this kind of assurance with words or touch; his past is not the burden he once thought it to be. But now he can hold it between them instead of on his own, and that loosens something he didn’t know was clenched around his spirit. He could stay like this for hours. 

Many long, easy breaths pass before Keith stirs, pressing his forehead ever so slightly further into Shiro’s shoulder. “Um. I should go sleep.”

 _You can sleep here,_ Shiro barely stops himself from saying. He sighs instead. “I guess you’re getting back to your regular work tomorrow, huh? Staycation’s over.”

“ _Staycation_ ,” Keith snorts, pulling away.

The air between them is reshaped when they part. Shiro feels like he’s gained a sixth sense tuned to Keith’s every movement, broadcast through empty space thick with understanding. He thinks of deserts and flying and friendship, and feels grateful that he’s here with Keith. 

As they turn back, Shiro says, “You know Antarctica is a desert too?”

“Driest one on the planet,” Keith answers with a little smirk. “I had to go through orientation too, you know. Seven times.”

“I guess you’re an old timer here,” Shiro teases. 

“Old timer! I’m not the one with gray hairs.” At Shiro’s spluttering, Keith laughs and starts moving. “Come on, I’ll race you back.”

Shiro wins this round.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was kinda all over the place but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ i cannot WAIT to get to the next-next chapter, but i'm going to be focusing on a different fic for the next few weeks (shiro family fic in honor of his bday!) so sorry in advance for the wait!


	5. December 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro in a Santa costume is the second-best thing Keith’s ever seen—second, because he’s also seen Shiro shirtless.

*** December 23 ***

Shiro in a Santa costume is the second-best thing Keith’s ever seen—second, because he’s also seen Shiro shirtless. 

He’s telling some dramatic story that seems to involve a close encounter with birds to Coran and some of the scientists, but he pauses when Keith and the others come straggling in for midnight lunch. “Merry Christmas!” he calls across the galley tent, beaming.

Keith waves back, entirely endeared, as Shiro extracts a box from under the table, decorated with red and green fringe and cut-out snowflakes. He pulls out strings of holiday lights and waves around a Season’s Greetings card from Camp Olkarion featuring its members posing in swimwear in the snow, and with a grand flourish he presents a ham to Coran for the upcoming Christmas feast. There’s extra chocolate, too—Ghiradelli’s, which Shiro, fully in character, hands out individually to everyone before tucking the rest of it into the shelf next to their existing stocks. 

Later, when everyone else is distracted with the commotion of lunch and presents, Shiro motions Keith over to the side of the galley, a quiet corner where the ongoing jigsaw puzzle sits undisturbed on a side table. In his hands is another cardboard box that, by its label, originally contained bagels. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, looking nervous. “I, uh, this is for you.” 

“I don’t have anything for you,” Keith protests, and he misses Shiro’s assurance that he doesn’t expect anything in return when he lifts the lid and sees—

A book. A big, dark, beautiful book with a swirl of sparkling silver scattered across the front. Keith lifts the cover in awe and carefully turns page after page of nighttime landscapes, the Milky Way sprawling over deserts and mountains and mirror-like lakes. One spread shows the moon throughout its phases; another, the aurora glowing green above cliffs of ice. 

“Since you said you miss the stars,” Shiro says quietly.

Keith is afraid he’ll do something stupid like kiss Shiro in front of the entire camp, so he hugs him instead—a touch whose welcome is more assured now that they’ve done it once, and which Shiro’s arms around him confirm. He presses his face into the ridiculous red fuzz covering Shiro’s chest; it smells like the cold and tickles his nose. He never wants to move.

“Merry Christmas, Shiro,” Keith whispers. 

Shiro squeezes a little tighter around him before letting go—right, there are other people here, people Keith has to work with in half an hour. “You like it?” Shiro asks. He’s smiling, though, like he already knows. 

“I _love_ it,” Keith says, stroking his hand over the star-streaked cover. He can’t remember the last time anyone besides his mom did something so _thoughtful_ for him. “Shiro, this is… How did you get it?”

“I know a guy who knows a guy,” Shiro says mysteriously, his terrible poker face breaking when Keith pouts. “Made friends with one of the pilots that flies between the Garrison and the South Pole, you ever meet Ulaz? Good guy. His fiancée is the Garrison librarian.”

“Wow,” Keith laughs weakly, still reeling. “Real love on the ice.”

Shiro looks at him curiously, but Keith just shakes his head, thumbing at the corner of the book. “I tried to get him to fly me back for Icestock,” Shiro confesses, and Keith can totally picture him all bundled up and dancing enthusiastically in the crowd at the Garrison’s annual music festival. “But I can’t complain about ringing in the New Year at the South Pole instead.”

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Keith says, feeling like a giant nerd and completely at ease with it because Shiro is just as big of one. Well, technically bigger. “You get to move the pole and everything.”

“You’ll do it someday,” Shiro assures him so confidently that Keith can’t help but believe him. “You got any wild plans here?”

Keith shrugs. “Ski, if it’s nice.” He huffs at Shiro’s bemused expression. “I dunno, what do people in the real world even do these days? I’ve been on the ice for too many years.”

“You sound like you’re eighty,” Shiro teases. “You don’t miss the fireworks?”

“Pretty, but they stress my dog out.”

“Staying up till midnight?”

Keith gives him a blank look and points at the clock. 

Shiro laughs at himself. It’s one of the things Keith likes about him. “Right, yeah.” 

“Why do you like it so much?” Keith asks, curious.

“I’ve always thought the new year is kinda romantic,” Shiro admits, the corner of his mouth tugging up sheepishly. 

Coran is calling for anyone who hasn’t gotten a first serving of lunch, but Keith ignores him, shifting back and forth on his feet and holding the book to his chest. “I’ve never really had someone to celebrate it with,” he says quietly.

The flash of surprise is gone from Shiro’s face as soon as it came. “I guess I think of it as the new year itself. It’s a celebration of the earth around the sun. Time and space. With or without a—another person, it feels like a new beginning to me, full of possibilities.” He huffs a breath, glancing down and then catching Keith’s eye like he’s waiting for his assessment. “It’s cheesy.” 

“Yeah,” Keith agrees with a slight smile, “but I like it.”

“Yeah?” Shiro’s expression lights up to something so soft Keith can barely stand it. “For what it’s worth, I haven’t had someone in a long time, either.” 

“Who knows?” Keith jokes, trying to save his heart by breaking it. “Maybe you’ll find a hot stranger to make out with.”

“I don’t want to make out with a stranger,” Shiro says, too earnest, and Keith thinks— _maybe_.

Later still, when the drill crew lines up to drop their dishes by the sink and Shiro packs up to leave, Keith thanks him for the book, realizing he never actually said it. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Shiro says, reaching out to touch his shoulder, and then, with another lopsided grin, “see you next year.” 

Keith laughs despite himself, light with possibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert embarrassed acknowledgement of the 6 months between the last chapter and this one] patience yields focus yeah yeah, but seriously, thank you to everyone who's stuck around and everyone who's said they're looking forward to this. <3
> 
> [yes, icestock is a real event](https://antarcticsun.usap.gov/features/4202/)   
>  [the new year's moving of the south pole and other antarctic holiday traditions](http://mentalfloss.com/article/58810/8-antarctic-traditions)
> 
> shoutout to sana for the idea of the garrison librarian, which inspired the book gift!


	6. January 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro doesn’t know what the protocol is for visiting someone’s tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you sarah for helping me work out the last few details! parts of this have been sitting in the draft for like 9 months and i'm so excited for them to finally see the light.
> 
> 10/1 - added a sentence for character/emotional continuity from the previous parts!

* **January 3** *

Shiro doesn’t know what the protocol is for visiting someone’s tent.

It’s no accident that all his flights have landed in Camp Voltron during the night shift—Keith’s shift—but he wasn’t about to explain his massive crush to the journalist from the Antarctic Sun he has in tow this time around. They’ll be here for a few hours while Bi-Boh, as they insisted he call them, does the camp tour and interviews the scientists. Too bad it’s while Keith is sleeping, Shiro thought when he arrived, but the day-shift leader introduced himself as Hunk and pulled him aside with a message from Keith.

“Last one on the left,” he directed Shiro.

Easy enough to find in the far corner of the field of yellow tents perched in the snow, but now Shiro’s at a loss. He can’t exactly knock on the fabric, but barging inside seems intrusive, and Keith hasn’t responded to his quiet greeting. 

“Keith,” he tries again, louder.

There’s a muffled grunt this time, and then the door unzips. Keith’s hand pokes out and flaps around, beckoning him in. “Boots outside,” he mumbles.

Inside, the whole tent is bathed in a yellow glow. Keith is slouched in a puffy sleeping bag, bangs poking up adorably from an eye mask shoved up his forehead. Above him a dozen shirts and socks are strung up around the sides of the tent—to air out, Shiro supposes. He’s warmed to see the book of night skies next to Keith’s pillow, and resting atop it, an antique pocket knife. It’s neat, if only because there’s no other clutter, and the smell of Keith everywhere within the close fabric walls makes the tent feel almost unbearably intimate.

They've grown close, sure, laughed and hugged, but after the vastness of the ice and the chaos of the galley—this is different. This is Keith’s home.

Shiro shrugs off his coat and fleece in the relative warmth and knee-walks over to where Keith is patting the floor next to him. He’s sitting up now, unzipping the sleeping bag, and Shiro realizes what he’s doing when he scoots over to lay it out flat, pulling up a second opened sleeping bag to drape over it.

Keith lifts up the corner, and it looks cozy and inviting, but—

“My pants,” Shiro says helplessly, gesturing to his thick insulated overalls. Snuggling up in those—if that’s what Keith is inviting—would be worse than if they were jeans.

“Take them off,” Keith replies, like it’s that simple, like it isn’t everything Shiro’s been longing for since he and Keith met.

He does take the overalls off, though, and slips into the sleeping bag sandwich in his thermal leggings. He flounders again for a moment, not sure how close to lay down and unwilling to leave his limbs or rear poking out, before he settles on a distance with a minimal amount of respectful space between them. 

He thinks he knows where this is going, hopes he’s right, but how to get from here to there eludes him. 

The sleeping bag is plush, and Shiro warms doubly from the heat of Keith’s body and his awareness of their proximity. When he turns his head, Keith is already curled on his side, looking at him, sleepiness tempering the intensity of his gaze. 

“You found me,” Keith says softly. 

Shiro smiles at Keith’s words, at the quiet wonder in his voice disproportionate to the magnitude of the task. “Sorry I woke you up.” 

Keith shakes his head. Shiro can feel how it jostles the sleeping bag where he lies just inches away. “I wanted to see you.”

“Yeah?” Shiro says, heart skipping. “I wanted to see you, too.”

The corner of Keith’s mouth lifts into the smallest of smiles. “Happy New Year, Shiro.” 

“Happy New Year,” Shiro returns quietly. 

Keith keeps looking at him. His eyes drag open more slowly every time they close, and Shiro thinks that he could happily spend the hours before he has to leave doing nothing more than lying here next to Keith. “You can go back to sleep if you want,” he offers. “I don’t mind.”

Keith hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, just blinking at him sleepily, considering. “Talk to me,” he says.

“What should I talk about?”

“Anything,” Keith says, then, after a pause, “I like your voice.” 

Shiro flushes, sure that it’ll be obvious even in the yellow-tinted light, and almost returns the compliment; Keith’s voice is the most pleasant he’s ever heard. He looks at Keith and says simply, “I’m glad I met you.”

“Me too,” Keith says easily, his expression impossibly soft. “I’m glad I met you, Shiro.” He shifts the slightest bit closer. 

Shiro feels pinned by Keith’s lovely dark eyes, the way Keith makes him feel safe enough to bare his whole self. He huffs a laugh at himself to disperse the shivers building in his spine. “I can’t believe it’s only been… however long it’s been,” he says. “I feel like I’ve known you forever.” 

Keith nods, the smallest bob of his head, and keeps looking at Shiro, almost with expectation. He’s so close. Shiro could touch him if he just lifted his hand or tilted his head or— 

Shiro takes a breath and says, “You see me as I want to be seen.”

“You’re beautiful,” Keith says softly, and _oh_ , that _does_ things to Shiro. 

“Keith,” he whispers, “can I—"

“ _Kiss me._ ”

Shiro does.

A sweet, simple press of lips that sets his body alight, lingering as he draws back just enough to glance at Keith. Keith, who is completely unguarded, casually, devastatingly beautiful. His eyes are nearly closed, lowered to gaze at Shiro’s mouth, and then he looks up at Shiro and _smiles_ and it’s like gravity pulling Shiro in to kiss him again. 

“Shiro,” Keith breathes, and Shiro is his. 

*

Sometime later, Shiro finds himself lying back with Keith tucked into his chest, a comforting weight anchoring him in this moment. A distant part of his mind is aware of every point they’re touching: front to front, legs tangled together, arms wrapped around each other and his fingers petting gently through Keith’s hair. The sleeping bag is askew around them.

He moves his hand to trace little circles over Keith’s shoulder, awed that he gets to feel the firm shape of it under his fingers. He hopes he’ll run his hands over every part of Keith someday. 

He hopes for a lot of things.

How can it be, Shiro wonders vaguely, that one person can make another feel so _right_? So good? So quietly, fundamentally happy? He never thought he’d feel this way with someone, after everything, and never thought it could happen so quickly—just like that, and here he is. Maybe it should scare him, but he’s not afraid; he feels free.

This is exactly where he is supposed to be. He wants to stay here forever.

Keith murmurs into the quiet, “I feel like I’ve been waiting for you.” 

Shiro pauses his movements, waiting for him to continue, until Keith fidgets in protest. He buries his face further into Shiro’s pecs. Shiro grins to himself, hopelessly charmed and, honestly, flattered, and starts twining the hair at the nape of Keith’s neck around his fingers. “Mm?” 

Keith slowly relaxes again, all his muscles going slack like he’s melting into Shiro. “I feel like all this time, I’ve been waiting for you to find me.”

Shiro’s smile folds under the weight of _feeling_ and his arms tighten around Keith. He presses his face to Keith’s hair, wanting to be even closer than they are. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he says softly.

Keith shakes his head against Shiro’s chest, then peeks up at him through his bangs and his long, dark lashes. He gives the gentlest smile. “You were just you.”

“ _Keith_ ,” Shiro says, heart squeezing, and Keith rises to kiss him again, and again, and again. 

Eventually Keith falls asleep; Shiro stays, holding him. He stays until his scheduled fly-out time, and then a few minutes more, preparing himself for the inevitable ribbing when he walks in late with mussed-up hair and lips swollen from enthusiastic kissing. The time with Keith is worth it. 

He leaves one last brush of his lips to Keith’s forehead when he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i love and (eventually) respond to all comments (unless you indicate otherwise) <3
> 
> come say hi on twitter! [@leftishark_](https://twitter.com/leftishark_)


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